springtime in sarajevo

my first days in bosnia were filled with excitement. We had cookouts, met for coffee in the city, toured the streets and explored our new world.the few bosnians we knew were eager to show us their city, their food, and their culture. there was a yonger boy named aldin, a muslim ,who'd befriened some other americans we knew during the war and had kept a relationship with us because his father wanted to ensure that had things become unsafe again Aldin would have a way out. Then their was Vaska. A stunning woman in her forties that looked about ten years older than she actually was. She was a war widow with two kids in their teens. She was sweet and very motherly to all of us. She was an amazing cook who spoke very little english but what she lacked in communication she made up for in hospitality. Then there was Dzenan, also a young muslim boy who had converted to Christianity after the war. Dzenan's mother was Croatian, his father was bosnian. That was the story with a lot of those living in Sarajevo. We all wanted to draw the ethnic lines so that we knew who belonged to who and worshiped what....but it wasnt about that. it never was. As the late spring thaw began to finally take we started to feel at home in our new city. We began to learn bits and pieces of the language. Figured out how to ride the tram, get to the grocery store, go to the movies. We learned how to live. We prayed and sang a lot in those days. It was as if God lived on the hill above Bascarsija, and he came and sat in our living rooms day in and day out.

cumunjua bridge, our first day out in the city